Game Over

I was calling you. Your phone was completely switched off. My heart froze the moment I heard nothing—no ringing, no vibration, just silence—and that silence echoed in my mind like a scream in an empty hall: Where were you? Why was your phone off? I stood, helpless, staring at the entrance, anxious. I waited, thinking perhaps I was being dramatic, but no. I waited for just a sip of water, for a sign, any sign, that you had arrived safely. Wasif's chest tightened as he stepped into view, his eyes narrowing—his usual reaction when tension mounts like a rising tide. He said nothing at first. The words felt too heavy to speak. His breath faltered, as if even that betrayed the storm inside. "My battery died," you finally muttered, his voice threadbare, worn thin by some unseen struggle. It was the kind of voice that tries to explain but offers no comfort. Ajāla bent down and pressed the power button on the mobile lying on the table. The screen lit up, flickering faintly, still showing two bars. Two bright green bars. Not empty. Not dead. Alive. "The battery still shows two points," she said quietly, calmly, as though she wanted to avoid confrontation but couldn't resist pointing it out. You blinked once, sharply, irritation flickering in your tone like a flame starved of air. "I don't know how it turned off. It just did while I was holding it. I thought maybe the battery had gone." Her gaze hardened. It wasn't just disbelief. It was pain stitched to suspicion. That past strain, like an old c***k in the wall, slithered back into place. Two bars should mean life, should mean connection. Instead, it felt like betrayal. She shot back, voice low with disbelief: A new phone—just sitting there—and it turns off by itself? That single sentence was lightning. It crackled with accusation. It wasn't just about the phone. It was everything under it. The lies. The doubt. The late returns. The half-answers. Your reply was tight-lipped silence, and then the storm. How should I know how it happened? you snapped, loud enough to make the curtains shiver. Your hands were clenched. Not in anger—in confusion. Or maybe both. The tension surged like electricity. Invisible. Dangerous. There, but untouchable. She inhaled sharply. Well, when you do figure it out, just let me know. Curry is ready. I'll make roti, get dinner on the table. Despite her calm facade, her voice was trembling. Underneath it all was worry, soaked through her words like rain through paper. Wasīf looked at her, something like helplessness corroding the corners of his eyes. He wasn't angry. He was lost. He had walked in expecting warmth, not war. "Set the table. I'm hungry," he said. Simple words, but heavy. She crossed her arms, exhaustion blooming in her voice like a flower no one asked to grow. "I'm hungry too. I've wrapped up work. I need rest. You came home so late; I was already unhinged worrying. Now, if you're telling the truth, I'll get the food ready." Heat throttled your throat. You said it was off. That's why you insisted. Why don't you ever trust me? Every time you walk through that door, you bombard me with questions. You leaned forward. Words cracked like dry branches, brittle and ready to break. You ask so many things repeatedly, and you never take my word for anything. Silence. Doors echoing. The smell of curry wafted between you—a bitter invitation. A reminder that life moved on, even when emotions stalled. Make me believe it, you always demand. If I trust then... I'll believe it when you make me. Her chest tightened. Tears didn't come, but something deeper broke. "When will I ever believe?" she whispered, but the words didn't seem meant for you. They were aimed at something higher. Something far away. So you're saying I'm acting? Is this all some drama? Her voice trembled, disbelief simmering just beneath the surface. You blocked your thoughts and threw back: I don't know—ask yourself, then tell me. Each phrase tensed the air, pulling strings of frustration tighter. She tilted her head, refusing to concede. Can't you just accept something without debating it? Isn't that how I speak to you? That question hung like a blade suspended mid-air. Maybe I'll reach that point someday. But not today. She waited. You whispered, and I don't even remember what happened to my phone. Give me the dinner plate—or I'll faint from hunger. Testy pride and exhaustion painted lines across her features. You're lying again. I know you remember. Her accusation cut straight in. Yes, you said, voice brittle, I remember. Everything. Your stare locked. And what about off again? she pressed, leaning in. You glared. What's next? Why did you even do it? Her jaw clenched. I just did. My will. It felt right at the moment. Silence stretched, taut. He shot back bitterly: You didn't think about emergencies. We have a house—a wife—a two-year-old, and a four-year-old. Anything could happen. I could burn dinner. Electrocuted myself while washing clothes. Or worst of all… I might die. The raw fear underneath those words throbbed—but she heard accusation, not alarm. You recoiled. You see how good you are at applying your meaning to everything? You took one excuse…and ran with it. I told the truth. Howled frustration was streaked with truth. If it was all so honest, why didn't you tell me sooner? You shouted. To avoid this drama you're creating now. Her voice rose, raw. This is drama? I'm telling the truth. I didn't switch the phone off just to upset you or blame you. Her honesty clashed with his suspicion like storms colliding. He forced his tone calm: You call me every day—but do you only call when there's an emergency? Is that what it is? She recoiled. Emergencies don't happen every day. But they might. The fear behind those words stung. He drew breath. Was today an emergency? Stifled calm wrapped around that question, building mountains of doubt in her chest. No. It couldn't have been one, she snapped, anger razor-sharp. He suppressed a wry smile and, under his breath, let irony spill: And bleach you, scorch you, shock you… None happened! That barely whispered sarcasm. Her glare turned ice. Yes, admit your mistake. Make a joke of me first. He blinked. Which mistake? Whose blood have I spilled? Defiance cracked between them. You remained sitting, arms folded, gaze locked—she sat opposite you, a pout framing everything she'd tried and failed to express: suspicion. He understood exactly what it meant. The silence spread, heavy with unspoken words, the weight of doubt pressing down like stone. She shifted subtly, hiding her eyes, as if to say she hadn't heard his question. The kitchen light glinting off utensils became a silent gallery to their unraveling. Finally, he breathed. In the office today, something blew up with a client. Back in the car on the way home, it broke down. I got it fixed somehow—I didn't want to talk when I was rattled. I knew you'd call, so I switched the phone off before it caused more worry. Words dropped like glass. Not even to me? A painful question. No. Her voice was softer now, but edged with steel. Then why lie that the phone shut off on its own? she pressed. He felt the edge of regret sharpen in his throat. If I'd said I switched it off, it could have exploded into something more serious. I thought: let me give an easy explanation and move on. But I underestimated how deeply distrustful you can be. She exhaled slowly. "When have I ever doubted you?" Who hasn't? Every day you ring a hundred times to check if my phone's okay—you don't check the line. You check my heart. Her face didn't soften. His words echoed bitterly and raw. But beneath her stubborn posture, love still fought to breathe. He stood and moved past her to the kitchen. She rose, broke away, and soon Wasīf followed, drawn into the domestic tension. The quiet of the moment crackled with unsaid longings. I do so much for you—I deserve some acknowledgment, she snapped, voice sharper now. Amidst the hush, he sat behind her on a chair and flicked droplets of water onto her back—his favorite teasing gesture since their marriage. It used to make her laugh. Tonight it didn't. You manage the whole household, the kids—no Sunday off for me, she said, matching his tone. Her words held sorrow. He leaned closer. I love you, he said softly, voice tired of the fight. I love you too, she replied, more tender than before but laced with steel. But you doubt me. You call me a liar. He froze. I say it and I prove it—I have reason to doubt. You don't. Silence broke into shards. There are reasons, she said, cold and hurt. At your mother's events, you joked with every cousin, big and small. You let them touch your neck. You cried when relatives came—you let them laugh, stare. And I'm your wife. He studied her face. Then you should stare at me, too. Her gaze softened, but only slightly. She paused. "You think I overthink? That I wrap you in illusions that tangle you?" She exhaled. There must be something, she said, voice low. He inhaled, grief buried in his chest. So everything is your virtue, and my love is insignificant. I love you enormously. She nodded once, a subtle gesture she first offered in university when listening to him, like she loved nothing else but him. He saw the memory flicker. He opened his mouth. She continued, Do you know what cruelty is? That this heart isn't even truly yours. His breath hitched. Her voice cracked: See? Exactly. You love annoying me. The sharp note of accusation hung between them. Perhaps. Maybe because when I annoy you, I'm confessing the doubts in my heart, he said, voice soft but real. She lifted her gaze. What doubts? she whispered. I fulfilled every promise. He began washing the plates, the sink carrying remnants of tension. She watched. I help around the house. I come straight home. I care for you. I endure your illogical comments. But one promise remains. His hand froze. She looked up, eyes wide. That I'll remain only yours. The brevity of that vow sliced through the noise. She laughed, incredulous: Why won't you believe me? Silence fell. I don't know why I don't, she said. Count the past with me, then believe. Clouds gathered over his features. He nodded faintly. But I only calculate the future. And the air hung still—neither of you ready to burn the bridge nor cross it fully again.